


Children of God

by TheLordOfLaMancha



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Violence, Crisis of Faith, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Italian Brothers, M/M, Religion, Spanish Civil War, spamano - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordOfLaMancha/pseuds/TheLordOfLaMancha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Spain is caught in the bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War, Romano blames himself for Spain's injuries, believing that God is punishing him for loving Antonio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of God

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeatimeDuchess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeatimeDuchess/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Due Facce della Stessa Lira](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173158) by [TeatimeDuchess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeatimeDuchess/pseuds/TeatimeDuchess). 



> AUTHOR NOTES  
> This is a gift fic for TeatimeDuchess, for who's fic spawned this headcanon baby, and possibly more to come if she keeps telling me if it's wonderfulness. Thank you to her for being an excellent Beta, and giving me lots of fantastic ideas about Spain and Romano's relationship.
> 
> HISTORY NOTES  
> Guernica is a particularly dark moment in modern history, and I don't nearly do it justice here. I suggest you read up on it. Basically, the Germans may have area bombed a completely innocent town in the events leading up to WWII, to show off their air force power and scare the shit out of Britain. It was one of the first uses of air bombing in modern history. The town was practically leveled, and the raid was so unexpected, many people at the time assumed it was a rival faction in the Civil War that bombed the town with dynamite, not the Germans.
> 
> Also, I know Guernica isn't exactly Spanish and is kind of independent in a way, but it was easier just to work with it as a territory of Spain.
> 
> Translations in the end notes.

When the news came through the telegraph, the operator knew better than to leave it to the next morning’s papers. It would just have to travel the old fashioned way. The few devastating lines were packaged into a small yellow envelope and hurried out by hand into the bustling streets of Rome. The message was passed off to a messenger who wound his way through the unsuspecting, hurrying crowds and winding narrow streets to an official looking office given a wide berth by the local pedestrians. From there it was handed to an envoy, and then to a message boy, and finally slipped into the hand of a certain Lovino Vargas.

Romano was grateful for the reprieve from the otherwise tense meeting. He had been worrying his hands with anxiety and itching the entire time to stand up and pace. The South was not impressed with the recent behaviour of the Prime Minister, and Romano could feel it digging at every inch of his body. And he was helpless to do anything.

However, all was forgotten the minute the envelope was opened. The world around him stopped but for the tiny typewritten print sloppily punched out in haste.

ALL NEWSPAPERS FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

SPANISH TOWN GUERNICA DESTROYED IN AERIAL ATTACK STOP  
LOCALS CONDEMN NATIONALISTS BUT GERMAN INVOLVEMENT SUSPECTED STOP  
DEATH TOLL EXPECTED IN THE THOUSANDS STOP  
FOR IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION FURTHER DETAILS TO FOLLOW STOP

In an uncharacteristic fashion, Romano turned as white as a sheet. He had spoken to Spain on the telephone just a few days before to see how he had been holding up during the Civil War.

 _I’ve been feeling much better the last few days, mi amore,_ Spain had explained. _I think I might visit Guernica for market day since it is not far._

“Signor Vargas, what is it?” one of the officials asked, as Romano realized the room had gone silent. He hadn’t realized he had stood while reading the message.

“Scusi,” Romano muttered. “I… I have to go.”

Leaving a confused crowd behind him, Romano bolted from the room to the nearest airport as the telegram fluttered to the meeting hall floor. He let anger wash over him to prevent his tears.

~o~

The airplane dropped Romano as close to Guernica as it felt comfortable going at the present time. He had been fidgeting impatiently the entire rickety flight, and when they touched down, Romano tossed a pouch of Lire at the pilot and hit the ground running. He had become an excellent long distance runner despite his laziness, and Romano did not slow until he reached the countryside outside Guernica. He only slowed to witness the devastation before him. The town was gone, marked only by the black scorch of the earth and a few crumbling buildings. It was destruction beyond anything he had ever seen and he had been to war with Grandpa Rome.

“Antonio,” Romano breathed without realizing it.

When the name reached his ears, he shouted it at nothing. “ANTONIO!”

He broke out into a sprint, his feet throwing up the gravel of the road. They began to turn black with soot as Romano approached the dishevelled main street. Despite the time that had passed, some of the crumbling buildings were still on fire. People and bodies littered the streets, the alive spilling tears over torn fragments of loved ones and crying out as people discovered new bodies among the wreckage. But Romano knew there was one body no one would cry out for. It was Civil War. No one was thinking about Spain.

Romano stopped to survey the dirty faces in the chaos around him for one that was as familiar to him as the sun rising every morning. But all he saw was pain and blood mixed with ash, and the air reeked with the smell of charred human flesh. It was almost too much for Romano’s stomach to handle. As he approached the square, the wreckage of the market burned so intensely still, few were able to approach it.

“Antonio!” Romano called out into the flames once he was as close as he dared to go, his arms out in front of him to protecting his face from the fire and smoke. “Mio Dio, per favore Antonio, conoscere! ANTONIO!”

Someone, a young woman, was tugging on his shoulder, pulling him away from the flames. Romano turned his head to look at her, a large gash cutting across her forehead, her soft face stained with blood. She was shouting something at him, but he couldn’t hear over the crackling of the flames and the noise in his own head. He slowly started to make out words.

“…pueblo… … aqui… Italiano…” she was saying in Spanish. “Habla Español?”

She was asking if he spoke Spanish. In truth he spoke little of anything useful, but he tried to gather what he knew. It must have shown because the girl began dragging him somewhere through the rubble.

“Sabes Antonio?” Romano managed. “Antonio Carriedo?”

The woman frowned and shook her head, but pointed ahead to where a small crowd was gathered. Romano managed to make out the phrase, “persona desaparecido.” Missing persons.

Romano didn’t reply, and the woman directed her attention to the crowd in front of her.

“…habla Italiano?! Italiano?” the woman was shouting. “Cualquiera?!”

The crowd parted and turned their attention to the woman, though Romano didn’t notice any of them as he searched the faces for Spain’s.

“Por aquí!” a man called from on the far side of the crowd, and began running towards them, pushing people out of the way.

He stopped in front of Romano, and Romano leveled his head at him. He was some kind of military, judging by the uniform, and Romano was not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid.

“Sei Signor Vargas?” the man asked in Italian. “Lovino Vargas?”

Romano eyed him carefully. The man knew his name. “Si.”

“Riconoscete questo?” the soldier asked, holding up a dirty golden chain from which hung a small golden cross and a single golden ring.

Romano’s eyes widened in recognition. Instead of replying, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a similar chain with matching items. The man sighed deeply and shook his head.

“Abbiamo Spagna,” he explained. “He said you would come. Seguimi.”

They had Spain. Romano began to chase after the soldier, but paused for a moment and turned to the girl, giving her a rare smile.

“Gracias,” he said. The girl returned a somber smile and turned away, leaving Romano to chase after the soldier with a heavy heart.

Romano followed him into one of the few buildings still standing that appeared to serve as a medical center of sorts. But it was far from being a hospital. It reeked of blood and alcohol. Bodies littered the floor, children screamed, men and women were missing limbs and fingers and ears, and others with burns were pressing alcohol soaked rags to staunch the bleeding. Cuts and gashes were tied with ragged strips of shirts probably from the backs of victims willing to part with them. Stitches were being administered with whatever was available. Romano counted the visibly dead who were bleeding out into the stone floor, no one stopping to move them.

Apparently the soldier also noticed, as he directed two other uniformed men at the door to begin tidying them up. Romano crossed himself and whispered a quiet prayer for the dead as he was led into the next room. When the curtain was parted, the soldier stepped aside and Romano treaded slowly into the room. There, in the sunlight leaking through a hole in the ruined ceiling was the face of an angel. His angel.

Spain’s face and body was a smattering of deep purple bruises, the spaces in between a grotesque yellow. His unruly chocolate hair was matted to his face with blood and soot, and sticking sickly to the counter he had been unceremoniously draped on. He was missing his shirt, and Romano could see the slowly healing gash that split across Spain’s chest, a mark of Civil War. Other parts of Spain’s body were marred and torn open in small bleeding gashes, and a few singed bits of cloth that stuck to the matted blood revealed where Spain had tried to heal himself. Spain’s entire right arm was burnt beyond the third degree, and it hung like deadweight over the edge of the counter, his shoulder black, but his hand a rich red where his blood ran off his fingertips and dripped slowly onto the floor. Romano could see other places where the blood had stained the counter and some places of Spain’s pants. Thankfully, Spain wasn’t missing any limbs, but there was a degree of shrapnel imbedded into his skin.

“We almost couldn’t recognize him when we found him,” the soldier explained. “But he kept blathering on about you and to take care of the people that we figured it out before he went unconscious.”

Romano had slowed his approach and had a hand over his mouth.

“Antonio,” Romano breathed, and took a gasping breath. He closed his eyes to stop the tears. “Mio Dio.”

This was not his Antonio, his Spagna, his tomato bastard. This was a broken man. A man Romano had put off seeing for far too long. He had let this happen.

“Are you alright?” the soldier asked suddenly, and Romano checked his emotions.

“Bring me something to clean him up,” Romano snapped at the officer. “Have you just left him here, bastardo?”

“Sir,” the soldier replied, evading the second question, and leaving to retrieve items for Romano.

Romano rang out the rag over Spain’s body, carefully cleaning between the shrapnel, his fingertips dying red as he worked. He let his anguish fuel into his work and he focussed completely, trying with difficulty to ignore the sense of hopelessness he felt. He had bestowed some choice words on the solider when he returned, and even Romano admitted his aggression was displaced. He was not mad at the soldier. He was mad at Germany and Feliciano, and perhaps most importantly, he was mad with himself.

He sat back and surveyed his work, gripping the small golden cross and ring hanging from the chain around his neck. Spain was wearing the same one, where Romano had returned it, polished of grime. Romano toyed with his ring and wanted nothing more than to rip it off in that instant. They were their promise rings, kept for sentimental value of course. The promise was broken the minute both of them were drunk and in the same building. They still blamed France.

But the rings were also a haunting reminder to Romano that there was something wrong with him. He felt deeply that if he wasn’t gay, if he hadn’t sinned, Spain would be okay. And it was foolish, he knew. His affections for Antonio had done nothing to cause the Civil War, and Spain being in Guernica that day was an act of chance. And yet, here Romano stood, deep in guilt, feeling as though he was being judged for his sins. He couldn’t be here. He had to distance himself from Spain. This is why he hadn’t visited in all that time.

Throwing the rag and bucket to the ground with a clatter, Romano tangled his hands in his auburn hair, careful of his curl, his mind reeling. He paced away from where Spain lay. He needed to leave. He needed to go.

He had never felt so lost.

 _The Lord is my shepherd_ , Romano thought suddenly, and his eyes widened. He knew where he needed to be.

Leaving the building, Romano jogged back the way he came. He remembered spying it off of the square, one of the few buildings still standing. He crossed the threshold and walked with purpose up the center aisle, his anger washing away in the familiar company of drapes and pews and the scent of candles. He ran his fingers along the ends of the pews and approached the altar of the church, kneeling before the cross hanging crookedly from the wall. He retrieved a match and lit the candles, dusting the altar of debris as the church quietly hummed with the muffled prayers of the others kneeling in the pews. Some looked up to see what Romano was doing, but quietly returned to their clicking rosaries in turn.

Romano prepared the altar for mass with a second natured grace. It was routine and familiar and Romano needed it to calm his nerves. He smoothed out the cloth over the altar and returned to the steps, where he knelt and crossed himself.

“The Lord is my shepherd, and I shall not want,” Romano began repeating to himself. “The Lord is my shepherd, and I shall not want.”

 _But oh, how I want,_ Romano thought. And it was then that Romano finally allowed himself to cry. The flame within him wanted with an insatiable hunger and he was helpless to stop it. He cried silently and cast his gaze up to the cross on the wall.

“Oh Maria,” Romano muttered over his stained fingers. “How have I forsaken you so? Why must you punish me so? Why must evil walk within me?”

Romano let the empty echo of the church be his answer.

“I know I deserve this pain, this suffering. I am an outcast, I carry the devil with me, but are not even we the children of God? Was not the Lord once an outcast as I am now?” Romano asked in vain. “The Lord is my Shepherd, my master, and he must judge my transgressions, our sins, the sins of my brother I carry with me as the head of my famiglia. But have I not served my Lord loyally these many years? Have I not fought with the devil and returned to your table time and time again?”

Romano had begun to sob aloud, and he curled into himself, clutching the cross and ring that hung over his heart. It was his little bit of Spagna he always carried with him, his shield against the evil of the world, his light in the darkness.

“Oh Maria, why Antonio? Pure and innocent ‘Tonio?” Romano cried out between sobs. “Please, take anything from me. Take my title, my wealth, my power and influence. Forbid me from ever gracing another minute of my life with the breath of Antonio. Take my life if you must, but please, per favore, don’t take Spagna. My Antonio. This is my cross to carry. Do not let him suffer for my corruption. Let me serve the sentence in turn. Anything but Spagna.”

The church was hushed and still as Romano pressed his head into the floor and cried his heart out.

“He is my famiglia. He listens when others do not,” Romano confessed. “He has forgiven me my sins, and I am not worthy of his perfection. And I… I love him so completely. I love him as man is to love a woman, and no matter how wrong that is, I always feel in my heart that it is so right, though the word of the Lord condemns me.”

“Santa Maria!” Romano shouted suddenly and angrily, throwing his head up to gaze at the cross looming above him. “Maria, why must it be a sin to be happy!? Why must I suffer for something that brings me so much joy?”

The noise startled a number of the civilians in the pews out of their quiet prayers. Romano heard a number of them quietly mutter, “I pray for him.” But he did not need their pity. The conflict within him was so intense he did not sense the presence behind him until he heard the familiar voice.

“Ave Maria, vergin del ciel, sovrana di grazie e madre pia,” someone was singing softly. “Accogli ognor la fervente preghiera, non negar, a questo smarrito mio amor, Tregua nel suo dolor!”

Romano’s sobs caught in his throat and he straightened at the sound of the song. He was singing for forgiveness, at a time like this. The Ave Maria was his fratello’s favourite hymn, and he often caught his brother alone in a Vatican chapel singing until the walls pealed like bells. He looked over his shoulder at the familiar face of his fratello. Italy bore a somber smile, a reverend face as he sung to his brother and Santa Maria. He moved his hands to fold them over his heart.

“Sperduta l'alma mia ricorre a te,” Italy continued to sing. “E piena di speme si prostra ai tuoi pie, T'invoca e attende la vera pace, che solo tu puoi donar, Ave Maria!”

The last note rang out into the church when Romano stood. He rushed at his brother, tears streaming down his face, his fist raised against him.

“HOW COULD YOU?!” Romano shouted as he charged towards Italy. “HOW DARE YOU SET FOOT HERE AFTER WHAT HE’S DONE?! After what he’s done to Spagna! How dare you come here, so happy with your fucking potato bastard? Why doesn’t the Lord punish you!? You’ve sinned too, what makes you so blessed?”

Many people in the pews cast up a glance as Romano swore openly in the church, but he did not care. He was angry with his brother.

Italy’s face was plain with shock. His eyes dropped, and Romano could see his mind working behind them. Italy hadn’t been expecting Romano to be so angry with him.

Romano was steps from Italy now, but he couldn’t find it within himself to strike his brother.

“How? Why?” Romano asked, and lowered his hand, devastated. His voice broke as he spoke to his brother. “Why are you here?”

“Looking for you,” Italy replied softly. “This is not a time for you do be alone, fratello.”

“I’m fine on my own,” Romano said with bite, but it was hollow.

Italy’s eyes shot up at the hurt in his brother’s voice, and he reached out a comforting hand towards him. Romano snapped in shock at what he had just said and turned his back on his fratello.

“The Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want,” Romano said with conviction, but he lost his composure as he repeated. “The Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want.”

“Mio fratello,” Italy whispered softly. “What is it that you want?”

Romano did not reply, just dropped his head in shame.

“Fratello?” Italy asked again and rested a hand on Romano’s shoulder. Romano sighed.

“’Tonio,” Romano practically breathed. “I just want him to be okay. He’s…”

Italy moved to stand next to his brother, gazing up at the cross. He knelt and crossed himself before replying.

“He will be, fratello,” Italy reassured him. “Spagna is strong. You must have faith.”

Romano balled his hands into fists.

“My faith is what caused this,” Romano said bitterly. “This is my fault. If I did not love him… Between the Civil War and now this? What hope do I have that he will come back to me? The Lord tested me and I have failed. And now I must suffer the consequences. If only he took me instead of ‘Tonio…”

“Mio Dio, fratello,” Italy replied. “He’s not dead yet. I love you, God loves you, and perhaps more importantly than anything, Spagna loves you. The Lord will not forsake you Lovino, and he smiles brightly on the happiness you share with Antonio. So why do you believe otherwise?”

“The Lord does not welcome sinners,” Romano explained. “And I have sinned.”

“So have I,” Italy shrugged. “Ask the Lord for forgiveness, and he shall grant it to those who are genuine in their repent.”

“I cannot ask for forgiveness,” Lovino whispered. “Not for this.”

“Lovino,” Italy said seriously, turning to face his brother. “You have killed a man before. I remember that evening in confession, and you did not hesitate to beg forgiveness then. What have you done that is so terrible?”

“I-” Romano began, then stopped himself. He sighed and continued. “I have lain with ‘Tonio. And I… I don’t regret it.”

Italy smirked slyly and turned to gaze up at the cross. He laughed softly and proceeded to kneel before the altar. Romano followed, displeased with his brother’s amusement.

“And I have shared a bed with Ludwig,” Italy said nonchalantly, folding his hands in prayer. “These are not things for which you should be ashamed.”

“But the word of God says,” Romano began.

“That it must be taken with a grain of salt,” Italy cut him off. “It was transcribed by men with as many faults as you or I.”

Romano knelt quietly, lacking a response.

“Tell me, fratello,” Italy said after a moment. “Did it make you happy to kill those people?”

“Of course not!” Romano reeled. “Why the fuck would you ask me something like that?”

“So that I might ask you this,” Italy said, smiling knowingly at his brother. “Did sleeping with Spagna make you happy?”

Romano turned bright red at the question and Italy laughed.

“I am in church, and my fratello is asking me about my sex life,” Romano grumbled. “This is not right.”

Italy turned his attention back to the altar.

“So if the Lord will forgive you for murder,” Italy explained. “Then why wouldn’t he forgive you for something that brings happiness into the world?”

“It’s still a sin,” Romano replied. “The Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want.”

“Believe what you will,” Italy said. “Be as chaste as you like. But you forget the rest of the psalm, fratello.”

Romano turned his attention to Italy.

“He makes me to lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters,” Italy quoted. “He restores my soul and leads me on the path of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

Italy turned and held his brother’s face in his hands.

“I have never seen you more happy than since you agreed to date Antonio, Lovino,” Italy whispered softly, his eyes gentle. “The Lord has led you to serenity, and it has not been in error.”

Romano dropped his gaze.

“Fratello, look at me,” Italy instructed and Romano complied.

“Though I walk through the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” Italy continued. “For you are with me; your rod and staff comfort me. You prepare my table before me in the presence of my enemies and you anoint my head; my cup runs over.”

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” Romano finished. “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

“Lovino,” Italy began. “You do not want because the Lord has given you Antonio. Accept the gifts he has brought you and celebrate in your happiness. You have lost hope in believing God will bring you joy, and I will always be here to remind you that you have it. Believe in that, fratello, and Spagna will be fine. There can be miracles when you believe.”

Italy ran his hand through Romano’s hair and smiled brightly. It was in stark contrast to the ruin around them. Romano reached up and held Italy’s wrists, turning his face to gaze at the cross.

“Come, fratello,” Italy said softly. “Let’s go check on Antonio.”

They stood and Romano tucked his necklace back into his shirt when Italy wasn’t looking.

They stood outside the church for a moment, their eyes adjusting to the sunlight. Italy had once again begun to sing the Ave Maria and Romano joined him.

“Ave Mar-” Romano was finishing when a small Spanish child ran up and tugged on his sleeve, disrupting him. Romano turned to face the child and brushed the bangs out of their face. There was a large bruise on their forehead, but the child smiled brightly.

“Ven a cantar de nuevo por favor!” the child said, and Romano didn’t understand.

It was then the child let go of his hand and danced into the rubble filled street, loudly shouting the Ave Maria. Italy smiled and shook his brother’s shoulder as he watched. Whatever reservations Romano had before, he put them aside. The child smiled with the familiar intensity of a sunrise and Romano knew that Spain would be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Now go read TeatimeDuchess' fic [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2173158/chapters/4753647)
> 
>  _The Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want..._ The brothers are quoting Psalm 23
> 
> Translations
> 
> SPANISH
> 
> pueblo…aqui… Italiano… - People... here... Italian  
> Habla Español? - Speak Spanish?  
> Sabes Antonio - You know Antonio?  
> persona desaparecido - missing person  
> …habla Italiano?! - Speak Italian?  
> Cualquiera?! - Anyone?!  
> Por aquí! - Over here!  
> Gracias - Thank You  
> Ven a cantar de nuevo por favor! - Come sing again please!
> 
> ITALIAN
> 
> Scusi - Excuse me  
> Mio Dio, per favore Antonio, conoscere! - My God, Antonio, please Know (hear me)  
> Sei Signor Vargas? - Are you Mister Vargas?  
> Riconoscete questo? - Recognize this?  
> Abbiamo Spagna - We have Spain  
> Seguimi. - Follow me.  
> Mio Dio. - My God.  
> Spagna - Spain  
> Bastardo - Bastard  
> Maria, Santa Maria, Ave Maria - Mother Mary, the Virgin Mary  
> famiglia - family  
> Per favore - please  
> Fratello - Brother
> 
> Italy's Ave Maria translated [HERE](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/Ave-Maria-Ave-Maria.html)


End file.
